I covet. I have girly fixation on shoes. I don't do purses, although I have an extensive collection, my heart and sole belong to shoes, the higher the better. I don't buy over priced Jimmy Choos, but I want/love/need Christian Louboutin, recognized by the red soled expensive-ness. My meager salary as a paralegal/litigation assistant does not allow me the excess cash to purchase and my down-to-earth Seattle lifestyle does not allow me the opportunity to show my would be shoes off. Maybe when I make too much money as a lawyer, but that's another day. Meanwhile, I'm one step away from painting my high heeled soles red and fauxing my Louboutin-ness. I would never do that, I'm just not that desperate, although everyone in Seattle would assume they are real (we do not have a concept of faux designer merch, yet). While purusing Bellasugar, I stumble across an ad for Christian Louboutin manicure. Heaven. It is a laquered black nail with the underside painted red. Slightly goth/dominatrix/I-work-in-a-brothel look, but a completely Christian Louboutin nail. I have have spent the last month and a half growing my nails out, and they have finally a) passed my fleshy finger tips, and b) attained a razor sharp quality I am still not used to. This, in and of itself, is a major feat. I was a mighty nail biter in my younger years, biting them down to gross bloody painful quicks so I looked like I had managed sausage fingers. Very lady-like. It bothered my biological dad so much that he would dip my finger tips into the hottest hot sauce in an attempt to get me to quit. Burned like Beelzebub on those open sores, but now I have a very high tolerance to capzasin, I like it spicy. Now that I have not bitten my nails in years and have grown them to a decent length (I know short nails are in, oh well, I'm just not hip), I feel I need this manicure. And I'm not a manicure person or a black nail polish wearing gal. I just love it and it is the closest I will get to a pair of Christian Louboutin shoes in this decade. *sigh* I covet.

Anyone a Terminator fan? Remember how Skynet became self-aware and thus began the series of events that lead to Judgment Day? Sarah Conner and John Conner and bad ass Arnold set out to try to stop Skynet impending self-awareness, but alas, this could never happen (because it’s not in the script) despite that Miles dude of Skynet dying in the Skynet explosion? I’m pretty sure Vista is Skynet, in Microsoft terms.

I am almost positive the Vista I have installed in my computer is going to become self aware at any moment. I think the damn thing is effing with me, establishing it’s aware boundaries. Soon it is going to decide I am not a worthy user and will take me out. Or lock me out. Either way, I have never been more afraid of a ‘puter and what it may or may not do. Ever. Every day I come in the damn thing has changed. It used to be little things like toolbars missing from my programs. My configurations altered, my setups changed. Then I started getting automatic updates installed, although I had turned it off. And McAfee magically re-installed in my computer, it’s has resumed inane pop-ups and alerts, but I uninstalled the entire program ‘cause I hated it so much. Then it uninstalled my wireless keyboard and mouse. Try to log onto your password protected computer without a keyboard or mouse, luckily I have more than enough USB ports and saved the installation cd. The most alarming happened today. My User Account Controls, one of the very first things I turned off, has been turned back on. My computer is password protected, and I had become paranoid that some computer genius moonlighting as a maintenance man was effing with me when I’d leave at night. I had begun changing my passwords everyday. I have realized, Stu, my computer, is out to drive me crazy, operating on Vista. Stu is becoming self-aware.
Occasionally, it won’t let me save to my own hard drive, saying I don’t have privileges. You shitting me? This is my computer, you horse’s ass, I’ll save where ever I want. Hell, I’ll take an effing dump in my own Public folder if I feel like it, ‘cause it’s mine. I don’t like it when thing tell me no. Especially when they’re mine. My microwave doesn’t refuse to cook for me. Sometime the toaster oven doesn’t work, but it’s not mine, it’s my boyfriend’s; I understand the potential for it’s animosity. Stu hides things from me; sometimes I can find a particular file, some days I can’t. I’ll try to find something via Documents, it not be anywhere, only to open a program COMPLETELY unrelated and find the damn file. And you know what, no matter how many times I find an Excel spreadsheet using Adobe, I still can’t open it in Adobe. Sonofabitch. It’ll take away my spiffy sidebar, to which I want to know: How am I supposed to know Seattle’s weather without my sidebar ready and available at all times? It’s not always rainy and gray and I need to know the 10 minutes out of the day when it is nice enough to be outdoors, ‘cause that’s when I should take lunch. Sometimes it will change my sidebar, so that I won’t have my calendar, I’ll have a stupid slide show of pictures. And just where did those pictures come from, because I sure as hit know there aren’t any downloaded by me and I deleted all pre-installed one. Or maybe I’ll have a puzzle instead of my clock.

Microsoft has created a program that will lead to Judgment Day. I wholeheartedly expect to see Arnold bust through my office doors and take out my computer with a shotgun. It will be an earth saving mission.

I had the pleasure of being my firm’s Vista guinea pig. The youngest member of the staff, and dare I say the most computer proficient, I got myself a brand new Dell, complete with Vista. Having never ‘migrated’ an old computer to a new one, I took the time to figure out what was required to get my inform from my XP OS to my new Vista. I had no info on Vista, save for the fact that it was new. And an operating system. Migration research led me to believe that switching files from the old ‘puter, that I had named Prudence, ‘cause she was a prudey bitch, to the new sleek Dell was as simple as a migration wizard and a trip or two between the two computer, hooked to the network of course. Low and behold, it took two attempts at ‘migration’ and two days of opening and re-saving files to get my new Dell complete. And that was just file transfer. The new Dell’s, (named Stu, short for Stupid) Vista-poo rejected damn near everything. My printer didn’t work, wrong driver, other network printers didn’t work ‘cause they are connected to XP machines. I can see people, but they can’t see me as being on the network. Don’t even get me started on the fiasco of ‘workgroups,’ that’s a fucking joke. I can no longer use my scanner, I think that is an additional driver issue. Bought myself a rocking new wireless keyboard and mouse with a myriad of buttons to mistaken push, yet meticulously set to my preferences, and it won’t work. Vista hates my new keyboard and mouse. Those awesome buttons don’t work, my keyboard and mouse are reduced to typing and clicking, no page surfing, no music controls at my fingertips. And it’s confusing. Finding a single file on a network I am very familiar with was like traversing the friggen Amazon with my eyes closed. Nothing is called the same, although, as far as I can tell, the only up grade I can see is the spiffy sidebar, that lets me know that Seattle has a constant weather forecast of 49 degrees and overcast, chance of rain. Trial version of McAfee slowed Stu down to the pace of the Special Olympics and I prompted disabled UAC, User Account Control because it reminded me of siblings and their incessant questions (because I SAID the world is round dammit, that’s WHY!) And I think the worst of it is, I can’t do simple things like change the stupid ass blind-person iconS that are as large as a damn apple on my screen to something more manageable. Do icons need to be the size of your fist? Did I get the geriatric version of Vista? And why oh why is it no longer compatible with Winhelp? WTF, mate? Winhelp was awesome, I miss it already. And when Vista is sucking the most ass, it asks if the information it provided you was helpful. If that’s not insult to injury, I just don’t know what is.

I am a computer ignoramus, with zen like patience. If I get frustrated with this, it's got issues.

Any (ladies) remember jelly shoes? Those were high couture fashion of the '90's. They would make you feet sweat so bad, then you would be sliding around inside those rubber shoes all day, lubed up on your own stinky foot sweat. Man, the blisters that gave me. I think I only had one pair, light pink. I don't think my Ma thought jelly shoes were the hit, thus the one pair, and not an entire collection. I really wanted some lime green ones. Like mint jelly. I used to pair them with my high waisted short-shorts in various vibrant colors. I don't know a better representation of the amazing fashion taste us ladies had in the '90's. I am gonna bring jelly shoes back in style.

Jelly shoes and linebacker-esque shoulder pads. That's my new fashion line-up for summer 2007.

I'm gonna get shit for this, but I'm a glutton for punishment.



M-E-T-S, METS METS METS. This is for you Moonz.


GO MARINERS! Still better than the Royals (barely).

I can understand a person being against abortions. I comprehend the concept of ‘killing a human,’ albeit I do not agree. I can fathom that side of the abortion argument, I just so happen to believe they also don’t believe in a woman’s freedom of choice, but to each their own. What I do not understand is abortion clinic bombings. Who, in their narrow, self-serving mind, believes that bombing a clinic, killing patrons who are there perhaps not for said service, doctors, nurses and women who have an unfortunate decision to make, is justified? Who decides it is their duty to punish these women? Because there are locations providing services that I feel are no person’s business but those involved, it is a target for bombings, assaults, picketing and protesting. What harm is an individual doing to these anti-abortionists? When did a woman’s life and decisions become public forum to persecute and judge? If I choose to cut off my nose despite my face, I am doing harm only to myself, for my own reasons. Does an abortion truly justify murdering that particular person, and in the case of bombings, innocent people? Shutting down surrounding businesses, evacuating homes and buildings, disrupting traffic and city life, violently removing another human being from family, friends and society to make a point? A point that is ultimately moot. A point that, fundamentally, anti-abortionist should absolutely have no say in.

I believe it is a person’s right to an opinion, to protest, and to be heard. I do not believe it is a single person’s right to decide someone is wrong, their beliefs are wrong and their decisions in life are wrong and thus should not live any longer. Along with any additional incidental deaths of innocent human beings. People need to wake up. How someone lives their life is not yours to decide, just like justice.

*An unexploded bomb was found outside an unmarked Austin, TX abortion clinic. After evacuated nearby apartments and halting traffic, the bomb was disarmed. The clinic has re-opened and will continue to provide such services.

April 25, 2007, I began my day with Queen and Bohemian Rhapsody. Can you have a bad day when you start it with Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody? Negative Ghostwriter, you cannot. The people driving along my route to the bus were presented with me singing and gesturing wilding to the lyrics, concluding in a modest head banging. I needed a whole can of AquaNet on that head thrashing, my hairstyle withstand my rocking moves. Oh well, I am a fat-bottomed killer queen (yes I am dynamite with a laser beam), so nothing really matters. To me.

It was actually Queen’s Greatest Hits that started the day on the right foot. If only I had my bicycle, BICYCLE!

Elevators are by far one of the most uncomfortable places you can be at any given time. Frequently riding the same elevators day after day, I have started to discover idiosyncrasies of individual elevators. Some elevators have what appear to be claw marks on the sides of the doors, as if the uncomfortability reached an insurmountable level, or the stench of some receptionist’s cheap perfume caused a panic and mad dash for oxygen. All the elevators I ride in have real marble on the walls, and every elevator has different carpeting. I have named the elevators after 6 of the seven dwarves, and Sleepy holds you in an extra ten seconds on the lobby floor before opening the doors because the exterior light must blink an odd number more times than the other elevators. It really makes you look like an idiot because as you arrive to the lobby, everyone makes those first perfunctory steps towards the door, only to have to wait impossibly close to the delayed doors. Ten seconds is a long time spent mentally kicking yourself and becoming acquainted with antiqued brass doors smudged with finger prints, again looking like smears in an attempt at escape.

When the elevator doors slide open and two lonely people exit, they almost always have a look of relief. That minute spent with a stranger is sometimes the darkest part of people’s days. I’ll admit I silently wish for an empty elevator when I have to leave my 20th floor haven for the mail, lunch, breaks and for the day. I rarely get it, more often than not I’m stuck with tiny engineers talking engineer talk. Engineers are even more boring and personality lacking than hardcore antisocial computer nerds. And they are always just coming back from vacation, which must be nice, but not cool exotic places, their vacations are taken in Vancouver, WA or Tennessee. I have never once wanted to go to Tennessee.

My elevators don’t even have muzac, which is odd because they have to span 40-some-odd floors. Nothing to hum or bob your head, pretending the be total engrossed and therefore have a valid reason to avoid eye contact and conversation. People loose all sense of conversation skills when entering the elevator. They ask obvious questions like: “Sunchips for a snack, eh?” Or state the obvious: “Rain again.” Men become Capitan Obvious. I’ve also noticed that the predominant colors of corporate work attire are black and brown. Gray becomes a break in the norm. And the younger a woman is, the more she elaborate the clothing becomes, although not more vibrant. Receptionists, despite having the lowest corporate salaries, have the highest fashion sense. All this I’ve learned from riding my building’s elevators.

Yesterday I saw a scrawny 20-something-year-old skateboarding with reckless abandon. A really tall, shirtless dude with a mini Mohawk and baggy jeans, he was right outside the County Courthouse, which is right next door to the Seattle downtown PD, so it looked like he had just been released from the police. He had the goofiest grin on his face, totally enjoying the sunshine on his partially nude body, happy to skateboarding. Some little punk looking like he was on his way to cause more trouble and piss off more old people.

He made me miss my brother.

Why are my choices for a Seattle roommates limited to gay men and conscious-living co-ops? Maybe I don't want to participate in your bio-diesel project, grow my own dinner (fertilized with my own poo - or yours for that matter!) or live with two gay men. Sometimes the Seattle hemp lifestyle is not my speed.

I don't even like Tevas!

I am normally a quite confident person. I don’t stutter. I don’t break into a cold sweat at the prospect of confrontation. In fact, I get a little giddy when it comes to talking in front of large groups because I like the spot light. Giving presentations or explaining my findings has always been another avenue to toot my own horn. Look at how smart I am, look at how resourceful. I’m competent; I’ve got a backbone to go with my brain matter. Not that I gloat, I just know when I am doing/have done a good job and I believe others should know these facts as well.

But. The past two weeks I have been busting my butt to complete a discovery for a mediation case I am assisting. This is my first ‘case,’ and thanks to a myriad of other impending deadlines on other cases, I have the opportunity to do the discovery process alone. Working this case with unrelenting fervor, I am trying my damnedest to impress one of the partner attorneys who is going to have to show up to the mediation with my discoveries. It’s damn hard! I am completely unfamiliar with this scope of law, not to mention I have no idea how to read structural, architectural, mechanical or electrical drawings, of which I am reliant upon to understand what the jibberish the contractors and engineer are referencing. With an impending presentation, I have been stressing myself out so much that I’ve given myself the ‘um’ curse. Every time I approach said partner attorney with additional information, or to request clarification, I say ‘um’ approximately five times a sentence. And this is after I gave a presentation during which I stuttered uncontrollably. I sounded like freaking stuttering John!! It was embarrassing. Shuffling through papers to support my findings, I can’t even get a fully formed sentence out of my mouth while my hands do their best impression unconscious Parkinsons disease. I have never had an instance in my life where I walked away from a situation mentally slapping myself for appearing so sub-par intelligent. Since yesterday I have just been solidifying my partner attorney’s question to my intellect by say ‘um’ after every word. My brain slows down about 10 clicks when I walk into his office (which is unusually cooler than the rest of the office), I get a vacant look on my face and I forget what I needed to present, ask, clarify, submit, etc. On any given day I’m known for above average communication skills and articulation. I read the damn daily vocabulary word AND incorporate it into my daily work talk. But put me around an attorney and I’m a bumbling fool. Let’s hope I work this out of my system before I head to law school.

All in all, I guess I haven’t made an entire fool of myself. I just found out he wants me there to assist DURING the mediation! He may require I not speak or make any sudden movements, but I will be there! Now I need a power suit.

If the housing market doesn't split like my pants on Thanksgiving, the only real estate I'll be able to afford is in India.

At least I have my own little India real estate guru right here on the site.

this is a true story of two hours in my life; karma played a sociological experiment on me. Here’s what happens: After waiting an hour and fifteen minutes for my friend at an English Pub and being stood up by said friend, I decide to head home. I consider, but ultimately forego, seeing my boyfriend because I am too lazy to walk there, walk back, get on a bus and walk home. Rounding the corner for my bus stop, I am early enough to see my bus, too late to make it on. Damn, I now get to wait 25 minutes for the next bus. Despite being blown off, missing my bus, foregoing my boyfriend, the gym, and missing the Mariners game I could have gone to if not for the plans I made with my friend (for which I was stood up) I am still in a good mood.

Bus arrives, I board. At the front of the bus, where I must sit thanks to all the people who are already on the bus, is a black and white spotted Great Dane service dog. It is serving an Indian (as in with a feather) woman sitting across from me, and her redheaded friend with buttery yellow teeth who is decked out head to toe in Seahawks gear. The dog’s name is Patches; he reminds me of the manic-depressed robot, Martin on “The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy,” he would throw himself off the bus if not for being attached to the Indian (with a feather) woman. The bus driver thinks he is driving a tank and obnoxiously calls out points for hitting pedestrians who walk in front of his beast (pedestrians flipping him he finger are 500 points). The Indian (with a feather) woman reeks, a mixture of dog and lack of hygiene. Or maybe it the redhead with buttery teeth. Probably all three, Patches included. The dog and body odor is making me nauseous. I didn’t eat at the pub; I instead drank two Bud Lights and now have to pee. The bus has only gone one stop and is still a good 30 minutes from your destination, plus an additional 15 minutes of walking. At least the fumes have alleviated my hunger. Next stop, a crowd boards, include two Czechoslovakian women, each with a suitcase as large as them, and a deaf Filipino woman with her son (who has beautiful eyes). Everyone at the front of the bus decides to play musical chairs, including me. I scoot next to the window; the Indian (with a feather) woman and her depressed dog sit next to me. The stench is overpowering. The redhead stands next to the bus driver, the deaf woman with child sit adjacent to me and the Czechoslovakian station themselves across from me. The row down the middle of the bus is packed with standing travelers, an audience to the chaos, and no one can move, let alone sneeze. Who, in the karmic realm, did I piss off? Every starts talking. The Czechs are arguing, loudly; the redhead is happy to be pestering the bus driver, which she proclaims to him and the Filipino boy starts knock-knock jokes to no one in particular. This aggravates the mom, who doesn’t realize she is yelling. The bus driver entertains the boy with his own jokes (knock-knock. Who’s there? O.J. O.J. who? You’re on the jury!) I’m thinking, ‘is it just me, or does this seem like the real-life scenario of a bad cultural joke?’ I seek solace with my iPod and Manu Chao, a mariachi band gone pop. I imagine I’m salsa dancing in my condo, it smells like vanilla and my dog is there. My visualization tactics do not work. Patches has farted. I start laughing to myself at the comedy surrounding me. Surely this cannot get any worse.

6ish stops from my destination (40 minute walk), two handicap men with wheel chairs want to board. Everyone must give up their seat; row-standing people must move, Czechs move, Indian (with a feather) and Patches, Filipino mother and son, redhead, and the Hispanic/Indian (with a feather, aka: me) girl trying to seek solace with her iPod, must move. I decide my bus ride is over, I will huff it. Besides, I’m on the verge over breaking my decade-plus long spell of not peeing my pants in public, thanks to Bud Lights and there is a mall. Grabbing my gym bag that weighs, oh, like 57 pounds, roughly half my body weight, I venture inside, disgusted that I may contract leprosy or flesh-eating virus for the unsanitary bathroom conditions. I do the hover-pee, and decide against washing my hands only because I think someone peed or spit on the knobs. Either way, there is a viscous liquid coating the sink. Gross. I want a Blizzard to make up for the hassle I just endured. But DQ has shut down, motherfucker! No small Heath bar blizzard with extra Heath and no chocolate for me. As I make my way through the lingering highschool crowds, I run into an ex. This night is horrible, I am blaming it on John for standing me up. Now my mood is foul. He’s wearing a Boston hat, baseball season just started, karma is kicking ass. I promise I will never again throw away my Subway wrap if a homeless person asked for it! I thank saviors for the gym bag’s weight; it is just too heavy to heft at him. Idle chitchat and I am back to hauling ass out of the mall, and scaling my mountain sized hill to my house.

I truly have learned that situations can always get worse. I also learned that I just don’t have the murdering tendency, or else people would have died. And I think my life sometimes resembles a rehearsal for comedic disasters. And, the right song can make everything alright.

You know how Al Gore affects me? By pissing people off who accost me on my voyages in downtown Seattle. How is it that global warming and Al Gore manage to piss of the rudest, most aggressive protestors I have ever run into?

One such unemployed world-consciousness changer called me a ‘racist’ today. A RACIST! All because I didn’t take a stupid Al Gore basing flyer from an African American male, fresh from puberty and attempting to enlighten me to Gore horror. “Take a minute to find out how Al Gore is affecting your life! It takes one minute to understand his LIES!” No. I don’t have a minute. Actually, I have several, but I’d rather waste those minutes getting a coffee, or staring at the sun, or hell, returning to work early from lunch. Your attempts at Gore catechization do not work on me. I was polite in my rejection of propaganda, I just said no thank you (yea, I added thank you like he was doing me a favor), but evidently that was enough for his buddy to shout out “She’s not gonna take that man, she’s a RACIST.” Uh, wahapa? I prefer to avoid confrontation while still experiencing my post workout endorphin rush, so I just carried on. But I mean really! I didn’t take the damn waste-o-tree because I had already received a “Is Jesus Christ Your Savior?” pamphlet from a different African American dude on the corner prior to the Gore-ifites. I had reached my giving-a-damn-for-your-case quota for the day, and really when anyone sticks out a piece of paper and starts talking, I understand that they are really just saying: ‘Will you throw this away for me?” Since when did turning down anti-global warming spiels (or maybe it was pro-global warming, damn teenagers!) make me racist? In Seattle? Racist don’t live in Seattle, we are too damn liberal for them.

In the end all I have to say is: way to go little anti/pro global warming dude for being aggressive in your protesting, ambiguous in your politics and sticking it to the man by revealing his true colors. Or in this case, the woman. Yea.

There'll be time enough for sex and drugs in heaven
When our pheromones are turned up to 11.
But tonight I think I'd rather just be sleeping
There'll be time enough fo sex and drugs in heaven.

There'll be time enough for rocking when I'm old
I'll rock all day in rocking chairs of gold.
But tonight I think I'd rather just be sleeping
There'll be time enough for rocking when I'm old.

My experiences with and because of Subway are preventing me from enjoying the tasty sub shop.

Yesterday, I had haggle, yes HAGGLE with the guy behind the counter to get a wrap made my way.. I was going to eat it, not him, but I guess he thought I was not skilled the makings for a delicious Subway wrap. I asked for a turkey wrap with ham. I get a ham wrap. I say, "Hey, you gonna put some turkey on that?" "You want turkey TOO?!" Mentally thinking: 'yeah, dumbass. If I ask for a 'turkey wrap with ham,' I want some damn turkey! Unless you got turkey flavored wraps back there, throw some turkey on that shit.' Giving him my best withering look, I nod. After slowly making my way down the veggie line, affirming every selection (I KNOW onions will give me bad breath and I STILL want extra!), pay and leave, of course, loudly questioning whether that guy lacked a) social skills, b) a brain or c) both.

Gnawing on the let down of a wrap, I'm standing for the bus in the middle of downtown, listening to my buddy talk about birds. (Yea, interesting conversation.) Surrounded by people, I'm sure that I am revolting in my ravenous consumption of the extra onion turkey AND ham wrap. Still, some homeless lady walks up to me, saying "ma'am, help me by a Subway. I'm starving." I say no, she turns to the person next to me and makes her way down the bus line.

Normally, this wouldn't bother me. Normally, I'm a big softie and would have given her the $5 I had in my wallet. But something about the dilated pupils and appearance of not being homeless made me pass on this lady. After she left though, I was pretty infuriated. Right before she approached me I was gonna throw away the last 2/3 of my wrap. I was full. I had eaten enough. I had considered offering her the rest and only thought against it only because I didn't want to gross out my fellow people. My buddy said she wouldn't have accepted it, she wasn't hungry, she wanted drugs (that's what I thought!!). But since she came up to me, I felt the need to eat more. Till I was uncomfortable full.

How dare someone make me feel guilty for throwing away food I bought with my own money.

A glutton for punishment and a slave to fashion, I stock my closet with a large variety of fashionable torture instruments, commonly referred to as shoes. My favorite pair (of the month) is a pair of black platform round toe patent leather stilettos with a hardwood sole and heel. They make me feel tall. I now have a reason to wear these shoes on a regular basis; previously I refrained from wearing them only because they gave the appearance of me being taller than the man. Paired with my volumous hair, the appearance was quite convincing.

I now work in a fancy high-rise right in the middle of downtown. In the 44 floors and 8 below-ground parking levels, there are 4 Starbucks; 2 on lobby level, two on level 2. A variety, which I assume us office workers need. After considering each possibility, I travel to the one farthest away. Negotiating wall to wall marble flooring, not a great idea. I am learning that the low co-efficient of friction combination of marble floors and smooth polished hardwood soled heels are not the best combination. Unless the surface is completely level, I have trouble walking confidently. With great trepidation, I hustle towards my store of choice and low and behold, to access the Starbucks I have chosen to be my provider of coffee delights, I must walk down a mild slope of high gloss marble. Grasping the handle rail with a fervor reserved for squeezing a dollar out of fifteen cents, I maneuver my way into the Starbucks, java euphoria imminent.

With images of my shoes being unable to provide enough traction on the upslope I need to overcome, I exit. I imagine not being able to make it up the slight grade, my heels constantly slipping, the ramp now attaining ice-like qualities. Suddenly my triple grande americano with sugar free cinnamon dolce and a hand full of ice does not seem so important. And, I believe I will invest in some rubber soled comfort walkers. Or use my feminine wiles to convince one of the guy baristas deliver coffee to the 20th floor for me. Either way, fashion is not worth embarrassment.

That Tom Cruise/Katie Holmes baby is the ugliest thing I have ever seen be called a human. Another pair of crazy folk that should have never jumped into the gene pool.

I took a short sabbatical from my boobs of justice friend so she could have the weekend to repair her disastrous relationship. That and because she can be my stalker at times. Her birthday is next week and I know the lame ass boyfriend isn't doing jack crap for her; he did make the promise to take her to the most expensive and lavish restaurant in Seattle, but just back out. She's been dreaming and bragging about this dinner for months, and now that's dashed. But I knew this would happen, the man knew this, it was anticipated. I know he isn't even gonna lift his sausage-like index finger to dial her friends for an impromptu party or dinner on her behalf. So I go to the bra of the matter, boobs of justice herself.


We talked about the gentle rebuilding of a doomed relationship, her and her man. He's been living out of town doing an internship for three months, and her theory is that this time away from her and home has given him 'unnecessary bachelor time." Hmmmm. He is a man. Who is unmarried. All time is bachelor time, babe. During this bachelor time, he's learned to piss with the door open, converse with members of the opposite sex, and hate the fact that he has been the 'bottom' in his relationship with the boobs of justice. She is a complete control freak, often trying to school me, telling me I need a man I can control. I don't play that way, well, sometimes.

She is trying to relinquish some control in the relationship, which includes but is not limited to: not paying for all of his meals, booze, gas and other such things, allowing him to make decisions like movie times and restaurant selections, and perhaps dressing himself. It has turned into a power struggle over this man’s mind and body, and the boobs of justice is not likely to bow out of this fight peacefully. I find this comical, but it makes me question my own relationship. Who is the dominant participant in my relationship?

I just don’t know what to tell her when she starts this talk. I hear endless rants about how she KNOWS she is his perfect girl, she KNOWS he likes being pussy-whipped. My retorts, which are not kindly taken sound like:
“Did he really wake up and say, ‘You know, I’d like an insecure, jealous, control freak girlfriend. With big boobs. And I want to be pussy-whipped.’ No, Boobs of justice, he didn’t. You constantly expressing this shows that you are trying to convince yourself of this matter. You need therapy. And if he really wants that, you both need therapy. You can’t keep a man caged AND quiet, despite how much you think he truly enjoys being pussy-whipped. Obviously he doesn’t. Obviously he’s having the adult equivalent to a teenage rebel-fest. Just because you provide for him, cook his dinners, do his laundry and take care of his ‘manly-needs’ doesn’t mean you can take control of him. Maybe his idea of the perfect girl is some one who will let him smoke unlimited amounts of weed, play video games till his penis falls off, not go to college and actually wants to watch sports with him. Who knows.”

Obviously she is living in lala-land and probably has no idea what her boyfriend wants, but that’s not deterring her from imagining he is still her good clean Christian man that wants to go to law school, become a lawyer, marry her and provide a good clean Christian home which includes her not working. Right.

I hope she gets her act together. She is a fantastic person, but this retarded relationship is turning her into a disaster trainwreck that I don't like to be around. Now she's pissy and crabby and complains all the damn time. I hate complainers. Are you breathing? That's not an excuse to complain, in fact, it's a reason not to. And it is fueling her insecurity so much that I don't even like to work out with her, and she's my workout pal! Everything is a crazy competition, with her running to that numb-nuts man bragging about how many pushups she did compared to me, like that's gonna make him appreciate her more. I wish she'd wise up and realize this dude is bringing her down, and no dream of not working and living financial-problem free is worth loosing yourself.

I'm making it a goal to take my Ma to the Ellen DeGeneres. It is for one reason, the pre show audience dance party. They pump up the music and the poor audience members are taped as they dance. My Ma has a wonderful full body jolting dance, akin to Elaine on Seinfeld. More like feeling the electro-shock than feeling the groove. It's disturbing and hilarious. Ellen's show is just the venue for my Ma to have her 15 minutes of embarassed fame.

If it is not my job to 'cause my Ma undue stress and financial setback, I don't know what is.